Sweet, Poetic Justice
by PeachyKeen83
Summary: The talented TV show writer thought he had it all - until fate swept in and delivered the sweetest justice known to man. BL visited. Character death. Sequel to Green Eyes, the Toe Breaker and Me.


_**Sweet, Poetic Justice**_

"The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish."

_Charlie Chaplin_

_____________________________

****** WARNING: ******

This is NOT a story for those who get squeamish over gore. The scenes are very gruesome and detailed in parts, and you are reading at your own risk. Yet again.

Just a fair warning to you all.

Rejoice in the fact that this time I actually attempted some humor in the form of mockery!

_____________________________

*** Disclaimer ***

To be honest with you all, after the Seyton fic I really had no intention of continuing the gruesome tradition of writing such a genre. But apparently I cannot say no to a sexy-ass Twin, and so my brain has once again returned to warped-mode and produced another fic that needed to be written.

Hate is a powerful thing… it instills within us a sense of yearning to have that which has wronged us, pay.

_**Well, pay up Marky-boy!**_

Once again I have to state that I do not own the character of Max from One Tree Hill – credit for that sappy excuse for a character belongs to Mark Schwahn a la scumbag extraordinaire! Furthermore, I do not own the character of Marvin "Mouth" McFadden (believe me, I'm cheering about that fact!), who also belongs to the before-mentioned douche.

Finally, I do not own the two other characters that make yet another appearance in one of my scarily twisted fics. I know you both will love it anyway, especially my Twin whose brain tends to travel on the same crazy tangents as my own.

_ You know you rock my world! _

So I dedicate this story to them, and to my other homies, whose profound hate for the man that single-handedly ruined one of the greatest shows to ever grace our screens manages to radiate beautifully with my own seething rage for the little arrogant fucker!

*_**Todd, Albi, Kase, Meaghs, Zoe, Mel, and my girls Tiff and Leli!**_*

Down with Markhole!

Enjoy, embrace and beware of the evil Schwahnunkist!

_____________________________

It is from weakness that people reach for dictators and concentrated government power. Only the strong can be free. And only the productive can be strong.

_Wendell Willkie_

Clearly we are **productive**. We are the **strong**. We shall be** free**!

_Enjoy!_

_____________________________

~**********~

"Do not seek death – death will find you!"

_Dag Hammarskjold_

_The air was full of spices._

A cool, evening breeze danced playfully as the world's light set over the horizon, throwing radiant splashes of oranges, reds, and pinks across the heavens; a picture of artistic splendor. Rubber tires crunched on sharp gravel as the metallic grey Aston Martin DBS Volante convertible wound its way up the convex driveway, emerald leafy trees and colorful flowers adorning the long path, shielding the house that lay beyond. It was a perfectly secluded oasis, free from prying eyes and volatile fans.

_Fans! How funny._

The arrogant writer and producer smiled to himself as_ Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch_ belted out their last note, the race car coming to a halt at the end of the driveway, Converse shoes that did not match the rest of his attire, exiting the vehicle in an awkward stumble. Chocolate eyes looked out from under wispy coffee hair, taking in the aura of the magnificent pile of bricks that lay before him. A lucrative television show had seen substantial monetary gain, and thus, incurred the beautiful accommodation that he now called home. The white columns were a mere beginning to the magic that lay within. Hardwood floors, granite bench tops, all the latest appliances, mazes of rooms, art work scattered like candy throughout the humble abode – it really was a mansion in every sense of the word and all his.

"Well done, Max," the lanky producer congratulated himself as keys rattled in bony fingers, en route to the brass lock of the door. With a flick of the wrist, the key turned sharply, and he stepped inside, breathing in the rustic smells that invaded his nostrils, once again immensely satisfied with himself for having procured such an oasis. Soles squeaked and echoed on the slick floor as he made his way over to the hall table, dumping his keys in the glass bowl and glancing up at the mirror, his own reflection causing him great pleasure as a smile formed across his lopsided lips. The writer's gaze was not held there long as satisfied eyes were infused with deep passion and longing for the reflected image behind him, and he turned abruptly, walking eagerly over to the grossly over-sized painting that hung on the wall behind him, its mahogany frame thick and pastoral, and perfectly contrasted against the lemon wall. A contented sigh escaped thin lips as glazed eyes scanned every inch of the painting, savoring the beauty he felt it possessed.

"Ahh, Peyton," he crooned, eyelashes batting at the mere sight of his curly blonde goddess hanging on the wall. "How I love thee, how I adore thee!"

It was a sickening vision, watching a grown man fawn over an image, drool gathering at the corners of his mouth, enlarged russet pupils glistening in awe. A bony hand reached out and touched the painting adoringly, eyes closing at the mere feel of the roughly painted image underneath soft fingertips, a goofy grin spreading across pin-thin lips. As a contented sigh escaped him, the dorky executive murmured her name again, the sound resonating down the empty hallway in a nauseating, lust-filled melody. Admiring eyes looked up at her again and he began to ramble on about his day, what scenes he had written for her, which couple he was trying to annihilate in her honor.

_Wondering where she had been?_

"Re-writing history is hard, my love, especially with the raving, lunatic fans out there!" he sighed unhappily, the worry of such a mammoth task creating frown lines on his flat, pan-like forehead. "But I'll do it for you! Everything is for you – what the fans think, a plot that is actually believable – meaningless to me if you are unhappy!"

In a swift movement, the adoring mule reached up and rubbed a skinny digit against her cheek, smiling as the words spilled from his skinny, cracked lips: dry and in need of some lip balm.

_Ass-kissing did have its drawbacks after all._

"You and I both know what epic means!"

The one-sided conversation was abruptly interrupted with the sudden bang of something in a room beyond what the writer could see. Max's eyebrows furrowed as his head turned towards the noise, wondering if perhaps his live-in roomie had been home the entire time and he had not known. He cleared his throat and called out, his usually high, shrill voice echoing once more down the oddly quiet hall.

"Mouthy-boo, are you home?"

A stale air breezed through the hallway, the draft a chilling blow on the skinny man's skin as Max walked down the hallway, the usual dumb, confused expression etched across his features as he called out again, a whiny and excruciatingly scratchy voice tainting the quiet serenity of the hall.

"Moooouthy…. Boo boo?"

_Still nothing but silence._

Converse sneakers squealed painfully on glossy flooring as a frustrated sigh escaped hard lips. Max made his way down the hall and towards the back rooms, the house a huge maze of many twists and turns, its walls adorned with framed images of blonde, curly wonderfulness. It was far too big for the two individuals that resided there, but it was a deceptive way to entice the ladies back for a drink or two, to compensate for the other areas in which they lacked as men.

"Mouthy, please, I don't feel like playing hide and seek today!" Max exclaimed as he opened the door to Mouth's room, eyes darting inside and searching for his young friend. His gaze searched eagerly, stretching out over the abode that was dressed to the nines in seventies-inspired décor, retro fittings for lampshades and a signed, framed picture of the village people taking its rightful place above the four-poster bed, laced with Rolling Stones forty-licks-inspired lip cushions. Max smiled as the memory of the time he handed Mouth that poster flooded back to him, the image of pure delight as the young boy jumped up and down, squealing in ecstasy as he received his gift. He remembered the little auburn angel's erotic dancing style as he jumped up onto the bed in his favorite Calvin Klein briefs, hands joyously signaling the letters Y. M. C. A. as his most-loved singing sensation sang to him from a Sony audio system. The writer stood there for a moment before another thump brought him back to reality, and he turned around towards the new noise, this one louder and closer to him than the other had been. A whimper escaped his lips then as he suddenly felt very aware that he was not alone in this silent house, the thought making his skin crawl and his hair stand up on end.

"Mouth, this isn't funny!"

His voice came out as a squeak this time however, nerves clearly taking centre stage as his heart beat expeditiously within his chest, panic rising and catching in his throat. He forced himself to swallow as he took tentative steps down the hall, eyes darting in all directions, unease the most prominent feeling he had at that moment.

_Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak…_

Max cursed at the sound of his rubber-soled shoes, a dead give-away to his current position in the house. He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling with labored breaths as he continued on his path down the hallway, flicking on as many light switches as possible to ease his fears, to erase the feeling of being trapped in the dark.

_He still used a Buzz Light Year nightlight after all._

_The dark was not his friend._

Brown glassy orbs scanned the brightly lit corridor, sighing and having a little chuckle as he scolded himself for being so scared. The wind picked up outside and he heard something scatter across the driveway, realizing that the sound he heard had more than likely been another object sent on a trip by the strong gale. Another bang resounded throughout the house then, and the Producer screamed out loud, a high pitched squeal that echoed throughout the still abode. It lasted for at least a minute, his throat scratchy and sore as he finally hushed himself. Bending over in an attempt to regain his composure, Max decided to head into the newly decorated living room, needing to find a way to settle down and ignore the storm that was raging outside.

"_Perhaps if I fill the house with noise, I won't be so nervous?"_ he thought to himself as he reached for the wooden door, pushing the heavy entrance open with two hands, huffing and puffing from the exertion.

_Dude needed to hit the gym. _

_Seriously._

A beating heart raged inside a cowardly chest, the new room a blackened solace of safety as the writer stumbled forward, the howling wind screeching outside the window as the silver moon cast shadows across the new safe haven. A jerky hand lifted to switch on the lights, the illuminated glow flooding the room as quickened breaths escaped trembling lips. Had it not been for the scare he'd given himself earlier, Max could have enjoyed the room he was presently in, its wine-red velvet curtains hanging loosely, framed portraits adorning a maple mantelpiece, the crackling fire on the far wall adding to the room's warmth. An enormous, cinema-screen sized plasma television ruled the wall, its size and intensity alone enough to impress any person who sat before it. It really was the masterpiece of the room, a central figure in a cinematic room of pleasure.

"A movie," he said aloud to himself as he made his way over to the cabinet, sliding his hand inside and browsing over the hundreds of dvds that lay stretched out before him, many unopened.

He always watched the same movie anyway. It had a way of making him feel better with its warming familiarity.

He slid open the cover of _Brokeback Mountain_, a little saddened that Mouth wasn't home to enjoy the movie with him for the hundredth time – that week! His eyes opened in horror as he noticed the cover was empty, but a quick search of the room enabled him to notice the DVD player was already on and ready to go, easing his sudden panic.

_My movie must already be in there! Jakey, here I come!_

With a lanky stride, Max made his way over to the lounge, grabbing the heavy metallic remote and throwing himself onto the leathery goodness, hitting the play button with the softest of touches. The screen coming alight with a fuzzy reception as a scene played out before him.

_That's not Jakey!_

Eyes widened in terror as he watched a scene of absolute horror unfold before him on the screen. A blonde woman, her back, bound to a chair and gagged as two male strangers worked away at her, unspeakable violence being carried out on her tiny frame as she cried out in tortured fear. The writer's heartbeat began to accelerate within his chest, pain choking him as he watched the girl scream in agony from the snapping of her toe, from her hair getting ripped off her scalp, from the burning acid that was applied to her flesh in a sickening act of absolute mayhem. He winced and a sob escaped his lips, the scene causing him to gag a little as he watched every slap, every stab and every painstakingly detailed weapon draw near her. The nervy writer grabbed at his chest in pain as he watched a metallic machete dive into the woman's chest, her body spasming from the brutal blow, arms falling limply to her sides. As if that horror wasn't enough, the taller of the two men pulled a silver blade to her throat, slicing through it easily as her blood spilled to the floor, a final act of sadistic cruelty as she gasped for air, her gurgling sounds hitting the brunette viewer's weak ears with a sickening rasp. He watched her die and sorrow filled him, biting his lower lip as it quivered a little.

"_What the fuck has Mouthy Boo been watching lately?"_ Max thought to himself as he watched the men walk around the dead body, a swift kick here and there to check that she was actually dead. He didn't recognize the men in the film, so they certainly weren't any actors he knew, and judging by the crazy camera angle, he assumed it was just another low-budget film that had tried to cash in on the success of the hand-held craze started by the likes of _Blair Witch_. It took a moment for the lanky brunette to notice the taller man waving into the camera, a move oddly strange to have in such a film.

_Audience interaction was a big no-no. _

_Who was this idiotic director again?_

Leaning out over the varnished wooden table, Max searched for some form of DVD case, anything that would tell him the name of the film, perhaps who had made it, or even where it had come from? He glanced up quickly and looked at the screen, chocolate pupils gracing the over-sized television as hands searched across the coffee table. Suddenly the camera was invaded by the soft face and green eyes of a foreign looking man, his shaky hands holding the technology as he made his way over to the blonde victim. Max felt a lump gather once again in his throat, the film starting to feel like a horrible snuff more than anything, and yet he could not turn away. As the taller man, the one with the clearly American accent, stood proudly behind the fallen woman, hands clutched over what remained of the bloodied, matted mess on top of her head, Max found himself waiting anxiously for the reveal, dying to know who had met their doom in such a ghastly place. The American pulled her head up roughly and a gasp caught in Max's throat as he stared down at the victim he so eagerly wanted to see.

_He should have kept his eyes closed._

_He should have never looked._

_Then maybe the excruciating pain that now ran through his body could have been avoided._

_Oh god!_

"Noooo!" came the elongated, tortured wail of a man wounded as Max came face to face with his darkest fear. Peyton Sawyer's lifeless body screamed at him, the vision boring into his eyes and causing bile to build up in his parched throat, stomach heaving uncontrollably. He thought back to the unspeakable acts committed against her, his Muse tortured unrelentingly, her screams echoing now through his ears like the roar of a steam engine en route to hell. It was enough to send him running for the nearest bowl, a ceramic piece of useless art that had probably cost way too much money and ended up living in a room that no one cared about. He spilled the tuna sandwich he had for lunch into the bowl, his body writhing violently as images of her blood, her skin, her death, haunted him. Over and over and over again his stomach emptied itself, gurgling sounds invading the quiet room as he projected his pain and loathing out through his mouth.

"Funny," came a sharp voice from the other side of the room, Max's eyes darting up in its direction as he noticed a body sitting against the window seat, a blackened silhouette now facing him. "I chucked when I saw her alive, not as she died!"

The man stood up and took a step towards the frightened writer who was now wiping the vomit from his mouth furiously as he trembled where he stood. Fear gripped at his insides, silently cursing himself for not trusting in his earlier feelings of fear. Eyes darted across the room frantically, searching for the nearest exit out of which he could propel himself.

"You know, it was inevitable that she met her demise," the man continued, hands covered in surgical gloves, walking towards Max like a predator stalking its prey. "Someone like that, such selfishness and such blatant disregard for those around them… surely one such as her should not be allowed to exist!"

The man stopped then, the light shining on him as he smiled wickedly, green eyes glassy and staring directly at the writer who was about ten seconds away from wetting his pants.

"Can you not think of someone else who also might fit under that category, hmm?"

Green eyes opened and stern lips pursed together, curious as to what the nerdy writer's response would be. He was rewarded with a blubbering mess, stuttering words stumbling out in an incoherent jumble, and the petrified man stumbled backwards towards the door that had led him into the room earlier.

"Why, my Blondie, goddess, gone, forever, so beautiful…"

Sobs flowed then, choking as they caught in a raspy throat, a snotty nose blowing a bubble as the man became a blubbering infant, not even remotely close to anything depicting a grown, mature man.

"Like fucking hell! That bitch was as ugly as a mother fucking goat on crack!"

A new, strong voice boomed across the icy room as a tall man walked forward, hands also covered in plastic surgical wraps. His intimidating stance was instantly recognizable as the torturous toe breaker from the film, capable of ripping whole chunks of hair from one's scalp with relative ease. Instinctively Max reached up and held onto his own gangly curls, the very thought of the pain of having them forcibly removed too much to handle. He cowered away, his knees beginning to tremble as he contemplated his options, thankful that only he had been home during this terrible encounter.

_Make that five seconds away from wetting his pants!_

"Todd, can you not see the man is distressed? We did hack up the love of his life after all! Kinder words, perhaps?"

Green eyes lit up as a smile crossed thin lips once more, the expression of wickedness completely conflicting the kinder words spoken as he moved across the room and made himself comfortable on the edge of the couch. Todd merely rolled his eyes and shook his head, determination mixed with disgust as he refuted his partner's statement.

"Fuck no Al! That is a physical impossibility dude! If it looks like a bitch, walks like a bitch, and talks like a bitch… then it's a mother fucking bitch!"

He stalked over to the trembling writer as he bore down on him, coffee eyes glaring into the blubbering mess as he spat out harsh words and angry tones.

_Stupid asshole!_

"And what about you, you little fucker? Did you honestly think that you'd get away with this shit? Did you think people wouldn't call you on it? Arrogant fuck!"

A heavy hand reached out and backhanded the shaking mess of a man before him, Max's cheek alighting with a fiery pain as he yelped and stumbled back, rocked to his very core.

_Who the fuck were these people?_

_What did they want from him?_

"Who are you? What do you want?" He sobbed, a quaking hand held directly over a now deeply reddened cheek.

"World peace," Al laughed, scratching the top of his wispy brown hair with the edge of a knife that had suddenly become a prominent fixture in his hand. A loud gulp crashed its way down Max's throat as he stared at the metallic object, eyes wide and terrified, unable to look away, fear ensuring his current state of paralysis.

_Glued down, body unmoving, fear abundant._

_Poor mother fucker._

"You can call us humanitarians," the American chimed in, walking past the timid writer and shoving him in the side, watching in disgust as the weakling stumbled to the floor in a cowardly heap, a yelp escaping his tiny, petrified lips.

_Yelp? Well, more of a squeak really._

"Pssh, are you fucking kidding me?" Todd spat out the words in disgust, looking over at Al who merely shrugged at the scrawny writer's lack of coordination and strength. "Whatever dude, we clean up the shit that fuckers like you create in the world, so that normal, sane people like us can enjoy this bastard hole we live in!"

"Please," came the desperate response, a plea crying out across the room at the two incensed men who stood before the skinny writer. Max stumbled onto his feet, body shaking with fear as he tried to collect his thoughts, to process what was happening, and more importantly, why?

_He needed to know why!_

"What did I do? Whatever it is, I can fix it! I can change it if you give me the chance!"

Both men turned to look at each other in surprise, disbelief crossing both their faces as they heard her words pour from his lips.

_Just how far up Peyton's Sawyer's ass did Max actually shove his head?_

_For real?_

"You cannot fix this, you infant!" Al exclaimed, anger rising as his green eyes darkened with hate. "The damage and aguish you have caused us, to the millions of people out there… it is irreversible!"

"But I can!" Max insisted, his lanky form stepping a little towards them, body still trembling but trying to act somewhat confident as he tried to negotiate with the devils incarnate. "Just tell me what I did that was so bad, and I will do my very best to fix it!"

Todd rolled his chocolate eyes again and took another step toward the stupid moron before him, tiring already of his incessant whining, fist raised to deliver another dose of ass-whoopin' a la Todd. Al interceded this time however, raising his hand and calling out, eyes glued to the miserable pile of sobbing nothing-ness that cowered under his partner's formidable stance and intimidating fist.

"Were you dropped on your head as a child or do you honestly just play dumb when you're placed under pressure?" the foreigner asked, his voice littered with anger and utter disbelief. "How do you not know what you have done here?"

The scrawny writer sobbed as he searched his brain for the answers, his heart feeling like it was going to burst out of his chest at any given moment could he not come up with the right answers. He searched for the right words and found he came up short, nothing seeming to sound right in his scattered brain, no powerful words of magic springing forth to save him.

_Ironic, since the douche was a writer._

"Can I just beat his mother-fucking ass now?" Todd growled, the image of the tall, threatening American sending the whimpering Max into a state of hissy-fit panic. "Dude is as thick as two fucking planks of wood!"

"No, please!" came the pathetic wail once more, palms up in the air as they admitted surrender, begging for a chance. Max's hands shook with the fear that took over his skeletal frame, his whole body succumbing to the shaking terror as he stuttered the next few words, barely able to breathe.

"Pl- pl-please just t-t-tell me wh-wh-what I d-d-did!" he begged, pathetic-ness dripping from every forced and repeated syllable.

"G-g-go f-f-fuck y-y-yourself!" Todd growled back at him, mocking the writer's fear with his own special brand of cruelty.

Sobbing, the writer sank to the ground, dejected and beaten, all signs of hope lost and sinking away from him at an alarming rate. Al sighed in annoyance, his hate for the pathetic weasel growing further still as he watched him quit so easily.

"You piece of crap, how they let you get away with writing a series is beyond me." He quipped before letting out a long breath of air, gathering his thoughts as green-eyes 'humanitarian' prepared to explain to the fucking retard just how much he had single-handedly caused the pain and suffering of millions

_Yes, millions!_

_Assface!_

"You force upon the general public a relationship based on lies, cheating, and stealing, with a total disregard to how those immoral acts may encourage younger minds out there! Such a sick, twisted obsession you have for the emo-bitch from hell, Peyton Sawyer…"

"Had," Todd cut in, his eyes widening with glee as he tortured the writer with the knowledge that the blonde skank had become past tense. "He had an obsession; bitch is fucking swimming with the fishies now!"

The mention of her name and death caused Max's face to crumple once more in pain, his hurt a pleasing sight for the men to witness, icing on the top of an incredibly delicious cake.

_Cry, you emo scum! _

_Cry!_

"Had," Al corrected, composing himself as he continue his hateful tirade, "… the obsession you _HAD_ for Peyton Sawyer causing you to lose perspective on what was right and wrong! You KNEW who the better couple was, you knew the majority of fans out there did not want to sit by and reach for their puke buckets every time the blonde twincest spectacle from hell burned across our screens and pulled at our gag-reflex, and yet you stubbornly paraded them like they were the epitome of what you deemed to be 'epic', and for what? Your own, selfish gain! Your own selfish gratification! You arrogant, pig-headed fuck!"

A shiny knife made itself visible then as Al stalked towards the quivering mess that was Max, water works streaking down an already tear-stained face as he sobbed into his now snotty shirt. The sharp point of the knife dug into the writer's neck, a tiny speck of red liquid appearing on pale flesh. The sting it made sent Max's mind into a hyper state, eyes closing and lips once again trembling at the thought of what lay in store for him.

"Throwing that whore Seyton in our face as well, dude, you were just screaming to have your ass handed to you!" Todd chimed in, hate oozing from his voice as he stood over the fragile, pathetic lump in front of him, knife still poised at his throat. "She really is the most pathetic excuse for a woman, and I wouldn't touch that fucking crab-infested scrubber with a forty-foot pole, let alone believe that an entire town of men would want her!" He laughed at the pure insanity of what Max had wanted them to believe, the way he had projected his own sick obsession onto millions of unsuspecting viewers, many who had watched loyally only to be rewarded with a slap in the face.

"Fucking doormat. Fucking whore from hell, open twenty-four seven for every man's convenience! No man in their right mind would fucking want that sorry excuse for a woman unless he had a fucking death wish or wanted to become infected with some hideous disease! For real, dude, you fucking failed epically on that one!"

Al nodded ferociously in agreement with his partner's statement, his words ringing true to everyone but the stubborn man cowering on his knees.

"Do not get me started on false hope either, you son of a bitch! Making people believe something only to have the rug pulled out from under them in favor of a rushed, forced storyline…" Green eyes filled with hate as the memory of all that this arrogant writer had done to humanity came rushing back in droves, the knife pushing deeper into the writers skin, blood now oozing freely down his salty neck.

"Oh yeah, and by the way, you fuck," Todd glowered, voice harsh as he lowered himself to meet Max's terrified gaze. "No one gives a flying fuck about people who hold no relevance. People who are boring and useless, as I like to refer to them, belong in a trash can, floating down a river…"

Max's eyes shot up then, confusion etched across his face as he tried to comprehend what the man before him was insinuating.

"What do you mean?"

Todd smiled devilishly then as he stood up and made his way to the door, opening the heavy wood with ease compared to the struggle Max had endured, and walked out into the hall. Albi waited patiently for his return, knife poised and ready to go in case of any sudden movements. Suddenly, the noise of struggling thumps along polished floorboards entered the atmosphere as the toe breaker returned, dragging behind him a terrified auburn-haired boy, bound and gagged, squirming for release as his skin squeaked across the waxed, wooden flooring.

"Mouthy Boo?"

As the words escaped the saddened writer's lips in a frightened gasp, Todd and Al looked at each other in complete shock, the sickening adoration pouring from the writer towards the carrot-top boy wonder too much to take in.

"Dude, that shit is fucked up right there!" Todd commented, coughing as disbelief threatened to choke him.

"Guess it explains a lot though," Al replied, eyes wide as he stared down at the men lying before him.

"Whatever," the American shrugged, leaning down and snatching Mouth's hair in his hands, his harsh grip eliciting a howl of pain from the nerdy boy as he brought him up to his knees, face to face with his terrified roomie. "Exhibit A, you fucking moron – Boring and Useless!"

Max flinched as he watched his precious in pain, Mouth's eyes glassy and lips quivering as the powerful grip on his hair made his whole scalp burn with pain. He tried to wriggle out of Todd's grip, but the man was too strong for the miniscule rodent, and the more he twisted and fussed the tighter and more painful the grip became. Max cried out then, unable to bear watching the other love of his life meet the same fate as his beloved Peyton, unable to endure the pain he was witnessing the auburn-sweetness go through.

_My Mouthy Boo._

"Please," he called out in his signature high-pitched squeal, the knife at his throat nicking at his flesh once more in a painful sting. "Let Mouthy go, he's done nothing wrong! It's me you want – take me!"

Al and Todd both laughed then, unable to believe that the arrogant writer actually believed that in the current position he was in he could barter. Todd threw Mouth to the side like a rag doll, his bound body unable to escape anyway, and he crouched down in front of Max, his eyes glowering at the man he hated so irrevocably.

"Listen here, you dumb little shit," he snarled, chocolate pupils permeating hate beyond reason, "There is no room to negotiate. You have had years to fix these mistakes, and yet time and time again you sat there and you pissed on all of us, thinking you could… that we would let you. Well, WRONG assumption, mother fucker. Dead wrong!"

He stormed out of the room once more, and a loud scratching sound was heard, frightened glances exchanged between the two roomies as they listened to the intimidating noise. As it drew nearer, their hearts began to beat swiftly, lumps catching in both their throats, both pairs of eyes dying a little as Todd re-entered the room, dragging a large sports bag behind him. The way it clinkered like metal banging together behind him was not a good sign, and the fact that the strong man had to drag it and not carry it only further implied that whatever was inside was indeed terrifying.

_They soon found out they were right._

The steadfast American opened the zipper and dove into the bag, removing a butcher's cleaver, its silver metal glistening under the fluorescent lights. Max immediately jumped to his feet and squealed, his mind unable to function clearly as he tried to escape, to get away from the nightmare that was unfolding before him.

"_Just run, Maxxie, run fast, get away, try to escape… argh!"_

Horrendous pain shot through the man's palm then, travelling up his arm at the speed of light as he looked down at his right hand, the knife that had been held to his throat now firmly planted there, blood oozing from the wound and trailing down onto the arm of the couch that now held the writer's hand prisoner. The silver metal looked oddly artistic in the writer's hand, and his eyes opened in disbelief that he had actually been stabbed, woozy breaths escaping trembling lips as he tried to fathom that his hand was indeed attached to a chair via the knife.

"Uh, what the, oh my god!"

As Max stuttered uncontrollably below him, Albi pushed the knife down a little deeper, eliciting a cry of sheer agony from the writer as he bent down and whispered menacingly in his ear, a picture of complete control.

"You fucking try to run again, and your other hand will meet the same fate!"

Before his shivering lips could even respond, Max's attention was drawn back to his auburn-haired friend, whose agonized roar of pain filtered throughout the room as the meat cleaver plunged into his shoulder, piercing through the skin and coming out on the other side. As the river of red liquid fell down the skinny boy's back, his eyes looked over at Max, tears streaking down a freckled face as his large lips quivered.

"Maxxie Boo, help me!"

A thunderous right hook to the face put a stop to the young man's outpour though, and he sobbed as his head lowered to the floor, another scream of anguish rippling through the once glamorous room as Todd yanked at the meat cleaver and pulled Mouth across the floor. Max shouted out in agony for him to stop, his insides begging to be spared the sickening feeling of watching his Boo being tortured.

"Stop it! Stop hurting him!"

Todd turned and looked at Max, his face depicting his slight amusement at the begging writer, knife in hand and on his knees.

_Like he was in any position to be demanding things._

_Fucking idiot!_

"Well, fuckface, since you asked so damn nicely," the toe breaker replied casually, turning to the wounded rodent at his feet and kicking him in the mouth, a cracking sound echoing out across the room. Mouth coughed and spluttered on the floor, his face smeared with blood as he spat up the deep, maroon thickness onto the glossy wood beneath him. While Max sobbed at the sight, Todd reached down and grabbed Mouth's hair in a rough grasp, his rage apparent as he dragged the boy across the floor again impatiently, placing him in front of his sickened friend with a thud. Without another word, the intimidating American reached to his waist, his shirt sliding up his body slightly to reveal the handgun that lived there, the Glock 22 .40 grip protruding and in clear view. A sturdy hand wrapped around the black grip and pulled the weapon out, its barrel now aimed at the terrified boy curled up on the floor. With his free hand Todd reached down and grabbed the boy's hair again, yanking his head up so that the writer could see the bloodied, slobbering mess he had become. With panicked eyes, Max stared hopelessly at Mouth before turning his pained chocolate orbs to the toe breaker, begging for him to stop.

"Please, don't do this!"

"I didn't," Todd replied, his nonchalant tone hitting the quiet room with undeniable absolution. "You fucking did this, you selfish, arrogant bastard! You should have listened to what we wanted… and now, you must pay!"

Before the writer even had a chance to say another word, Todd thrust the gun to the side of Mouth's head, a powerful finger pulling the waiting trigger and loading a round into the boy's brain, the explosion blasting across the room with a deafening roar. Red, thick matter sprayed across the pale wall, chunks sliding down slowly as the blood dripped in long sheets, a once lively body going limp and falling to the floor amidst the vociferous screech of the terrified Max.

As Albi clapped his hands in appreciation of the blatant execution, a terrified Max hastily wrenched the bloody knife from his hand, adrenalin kicking in as he let out an infuriated roar, charging at the door and fleeing out of the room. The heavy thud of boots followed close behind the terrified writer as he darted up the stairway, falling over his own feet once or twice as he stumbled down the hallway and into the safety of his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, turning the lock as the bashing began from the other side, eyes glancing frantically around the room, desperate for some sort of escape.

_Fuck! Run, you fucking idiot!_

In a moment of haste, Max threw himself into the darkened cupboard and slammed the door shut, hunching himself into the corner as he wrapped his arms around his quivering legs, terrified sobs escaping trembling lips. He closed his eyes and prayed as he heard his bedroom door burst open, shocked gasps escaping both predators' lips as they took in the sight of the writer's sleeping chamber.

"Fuck me!" Todd exclaimed, voice oozing with disgust and shock as he walked slowly into the room, eyes looking over the place in awe.

"This is what you call obsession; terrifying, insane obsession!" Albi replied as he glanced over the objects nestled in the room, disbelief filtering through his tone as both men walked around the area slowly, just taking it all in.

_What a fucking sight to see!_

The bedroom could have been taken from the set of the show itself. Peyton's Sawyer's replica room was on full display, no money spared on getting the look just right. In the centre was the infamous whore's bed, a red blanket draped over as pictures of her artwork adorned the walls. Todd coughed in horror as he saw the picture of Jake holding baby Jenny, only this time it wasn't Jake – it was Max glaring back at him. Albi snorted and rolled his eyes as he came to the computer, running his hand over the mouse to activate the screen and seeing the Punk n Disorderly site up and running, images of Peyton flicking through at a slow, agonizing pace across the screen. Both men glanced at each other in repugnance, their disdain for the crazy writer growing more intense as both pairs of eyes travelled to the closet, its dominant double doors littered with Peyton memorabilia.

_Funny! That's all that was left of her anyway. _

_Memories._

Albi turned to face his partner with a raised eyebrow, getting the nod of approval from Todd as he kicked the door in, walking straight up to the squealing writer and dragging him from the cupboard as the terrifying American watched on in pleasure. Albi threw Max onto the bed, the sobbing, pathetic excuse for a man shaking on the spot, eyes wide as he suffered the menacing gaze of two very, angry men who began to tear the room apart. The writer moaned in agony as he watched his precious abode get torn to shreds, objects smashing all around as the shrine to Peyton disintegrated before his very eyes. Todd grabbed the pictures from the wall and ripped them to pieces, smashing every framed photograph and sketch of the blonde he could get his hands on, occasionally spitting on a few and muttering the words "whore" and "slut". Meanwhile, Albi pulled at the computer and sent it on a one way trip to hell, the technology smashing on the ground and scattering everywhere, sparks flying as all the memories and data Max had of his precious Peyton disappeared. Next they ventured into the cupboard, Max's wails of protest falling on deaf ears as they pulled apart and snapped every record they could find, every ounce of the blonde destroyed in one foul swoop.

Unable to stand his constant sobbing any longer, the sound grating on his nerves to no end, Todd grunted and stalked over to him, grabbing his foot and pulling him from the bed, the back of the writer's head thumping on the hard floor as he landed. Without another word he dragged him back through the house, his head bumping on every step as he was dragged kicking and screaming down the stairs, the foreign man laughing at him from behind as Max was dragged back into the room where the terror began. He sobbed as he caught sight of his dead friend again, the blood pooling around what was left of his splattered head, and Max closed his eyes at the sight of it, heart breaking and roaring in agony inside his aching chest.

_Oh god, no more pain. Please, no more pain._

_Release me!_

Suddenly his body was lifted and tied to a chair, reminiscent of the scene he had witnessed in the video; Peyton's terrified scream whistling through his ears once more as the memory came flooding back. Glassy, blood-shot eyes strained to stay open as he felt the ropes dig into his flesh, rough and burning as they gnawed at his skin, sending a new kind of stinging pain up his scrawny legs.

_It was nothing compared to the sheer agony he suffered next._

As metal objects clanked around in the heavy gym bag, Todd and Albi rummaged through the piece of luggage, jointly smiling as they each removed a weapon of choice. The American stepped forward then as he held a black leather pouch, sliding it open menacingly to reveal the extremely sharp, Modern Winchester Riot Dagger, its silver blade alone enough to cause a complete breakdown in any victim. Max's eyes grew wide with horror as the shining metal was dangled mercilessly in front of him, a wicked grin engulfing enticing lips as Todd towered over the tiny writer. With a quick flick of the wrist he slashed open the pathetic _Jimmy Eat World_ t-shirt the scrawny runt was wearing and stared down in disgust at his unimpressive chest.

_No wonder he needed a bachelor pad such as this. _

_Dude was seriously lacking in the manly department._

"Please, no!" Max begged, wriggling desperately to break free of his woven bounds. "Please, please NO!"

"Interesting," Todd exclaimed, raising the dagger so that its sharp edge was no more than an inch from the writer's heated skin. "Every time your fans asked you to stop, you laughed at us. So excuse me if I find this whole scenario fucking hilarious. Now shut up, Mr. Writer, I have my own fucking transcript to post!"

Sharp metal hit fragile skin as the toe breaker carved into the writer's creamy flesh, the brunette screaming out in agony as Todd slid the knife easily across his skin, blood oozing from every slice as he created the word "liar" into Max's heaving torso. Quickened, pained breaths escaped rickety lips as the writer tried to compose himself, feeling his body engulfed by a wave of wooziness as he tried to force himself to stay awake. He looked down at his mangled chest, the brutal graffiti causing him to gag a little, a dry wretch producing further stress on his already exhausted body.

_Deliverance was not to be endured._

Forceful hands gripped the side of an oblong head as Albi forced the writer to stay still, thrashing limbs held still so that their victim endured the agony that was coming his way. The foreigner was determined to make this bastard feel every ounce of pain inflicted upon him, payment for the many torturous years of pain he had inflicted upon others. Immediately the pointed metal was assaulting his skin again, Max screaming in mortified horror as he felt the dominant blade inscribe itself across his tattered flesh, a searing, burning pain engulfing his entire being as blood smeared across the pasty tissue that was once his chest. Screams of horror turned into harsh sobs, a throat destroyed by incessant, agonized cries yet unable to cease its tortured ramblings. As Max's body became tattooed with words of hatred, the writer could feel himself drawing near his end, the pain overcoming him as he fell in and out of hazy blackness.

_Liar. Traitor. Selfish. Hate. Bastard. Evil. Devil. Fake. Pretender. Hypocrite. Fraud. Phony._

As darkness consumed him, Max let the raging fire engulf his body, mind drifting away to happier times, an image of a blonde angel dancing before him bringing some reprieve. It was not to stay for long, her face disappearing as a deafening crack exploded through his senses, bright red flashing across his weakened mind, nose enraged with searing pain as a strong fist connected with soft tissue and bone. With sinuses attacked by an overcoming ache, Max felt his own blood yet again cascade down his body, this time from his nose as the foreigner glared at him angrily, words spitting out of his mouth with incredible harshness and disgust.

"You do not get to sleep through this, you son of a bitch!" he roared, fist raised to pound again should the writer even dare to close his now heavy eyelids. "You brought this on yourself – you and your writing! You should never be allowed to inflict this kind of hell on anyone ever again!"

As his own words raced through his mind, Albi's face clouded over with contemplation, staring down at Max's trembling hands in deep thought. He nodded to himself almost as if receiving the answer he needed from the mere glance and headed towards the sports bag, digging around until he had produced the weapon he desired. Boots stamping dominantly across the waxed floor signaled his return, and as Todd wiped his blade clean, having satisfied himself with the creative masterpiece he had carved into the writer's chest, Albi stood over Max and watched him, voice stern but oddly calm.

"It was your selfish writing that did this, we cannot allow for it to ever happen again!"

Max forced himself to pull his weary head upwards, broken eyes meeting defiant green as he watched the foreigner smile evilly down at him, arms elevating above his wispy brown locks as he raised a menacing axe in the air. A strained roar filled the air once more as Albi brought the weapon down on a skinny defenseless wrist, slicing through the weak skin with relative ease, bone not even a formidable opponent for the dominating metal. The once prized possession of the writer, his very livelihood, thumped on the floor and wobbled a little, thick blood pooling around the hand that was once so important.

"Wait," said the toe breaker, his eyes looking at his partner questioningly as Max struggled to remain conscious. "Is he fucking right-handed or left-handed?"

Realizing he didn't have the answer, Albi shrugged, making his way over to the left side of the writer and raising the axe once more, detaching the left hand with as much ease as the first, howling sobs escaping strangled lips, a throat now unmistakably raw from the many screams and cries it had produced that evening. The American laughed and nodded his head in appreciation, Albi wiping the blade of the axe as he spat in Max's face, a cruel, disrespectful taunt as the writer crumpled into an abyss of pain, suffering and loathing. The foreigner threw the axe back into the weapons bag, a sigh escaping bored lips as he sauntered back over to their victim, throwing his partner a determined glance.

"We end this!"

A nod signaled his partner's agreement, Todd leaning down and grabbing at what remained of the writer's tattered t-shirt as Albi sliced through the ropes that bound Max to the wooden chair. Once freed, Todd yanked their victim across the floor, dragging him behind them as he followed Albi down the hall, the bathroom their destination. Max noticed a garbage bag in the corner, filled to the brim with empty bottles on Sunkist that had been clearly stolen from his stockpile in the pantry, and he found his mind cluttered with crazy images of what lay ahead for him, uncertainty torturing his fragile mind in all new ways.

His mind was soon confronted with the image of what lay ahead.

_Death was imminent, it would seem._

It was the designer bathtub that was filled with the orange, fizzy liquid; the bubbles hissing and echoing across the tiled museum as Max was lifted above the amber fluid, dangling from a strong grip as his blood dripped from his broken body, red mixing with orange exquisitely. As excruciatingly drawn out breaths escaped defeated cracked lips, Max closed his eyes and listened to the hateful words that spurned from his attackers' lips, infusing his mind with the undeniable truth that he was indeed a hated man, a menace to society, and ultimately, a man whose time was up.

"Any last words before you meet your maker?" the foreigner asked, his voice unable to hide his lack of compassion for the dying man before him.

"They will find you for this," Max rasped, voice strained and croaky, eyelids fluttering open and closed from the overpowering weakening of his body. "And when they do, may you burn in hell!"

A cruel laugh escaped the American's lips then, leaning in closely so that the last sound the writer ever heard was his horrifying, taunting voice.

"You first, mother fucker!"

Toddy dumped the writer into the sticky liquid, his strong hand pushing down on the forehead of the helpless has-been, body writhing and struggling as the panic from the lack of oxygen began to take effect. Two strong arms reached down amidst splashing orange fluid as Albi seized the flailing legs, holding him in place as orange fizz escaped into burning nostrils, a chest becoming flooded with bubbling death. Jerky movements overcame the deformed body as his lungs screamed for reprieve, crying out for the oxygen that was never to come and the citric liquid cascaded down Max's throat like acid, murderously burning his now dying lungs. For a few minutes his body responded like this, heaving and thrashing, liquid spitting out over the white tiled perfection, hands gripping and pushing down, unrelentingly vicious to ensure the job was done. Soon the body began to weaken, frightened eyes beginning to close softly, burned by the fizz that attacked them and falling into the darkness that dug at their corners. As the blackened doom called his name, Max fell into it, unable to fight anymore, his lungs giving up, bubbles escaping now still lips.

_Succumb to the darkness and the light will fade away._

_No more pain, no more horror._

_Only darkness._

_Be gone, for I do not wish you back again._

As they loosened their grip, the attackers watched the body that now remained, drained of all life and floating to the top of the bathtub lifelessly. They waited a few minutes, ensuring that the act was indeed carried out completely, before standing up and taking a long breath, their job almost over. As they made their way back down the hall they began to set up the scene, a gun placed firmly into Mouth's right hand, a letter and photos of infidelity placed on a seventies-inspired bed, a note with the single words "I'm sorry!" attached to the left hand of a rodent whose brain remained smeared against a wall. The men stood and looked around then, once more smiling to themselves for carrying out such an ingenious plan.

"Burgers?" Al asked his comrade, rubbing his stomach a little as he heard it growl hungrily, grabbing hold of one end of the gym bag that contained the weapons responsible for committing the acts of horror that night.

"You fucking know it!" Toddy replied, grabbing hold of the other end as they lifted it up easily now, making their way towards the mahogany door that led them to the outside world. Dumping the bag in the back seat of the truck, Toddy and Albi climbed into the vehicle, the engine screaming to life as they dashed back down the convex driveway, away from the mansion that contained hardwood floors, granite bench tops, all the latest appliances, mazes of rooms, art work scattered like candy…

… _and two dead mother fuckers who would never be missed!_

"Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten."

_Buddha_

_*************_

**~** Epilogue** ~**

Baby blues flicked through the monotonous television channels with a tired sigh, the blonde-haired boy wrapping his arm more tightly around the sleeping brunette who had managed to fold her body so perfectly into his. Lucas Scott smiled as a mumbled mess of jumbled words spilled forth from perfect, fruity-glossed lips, leaning down to kiss their keeper, Brooke Davis, on her strawberry-scented perfection, brown locks tickling his smiling lips. Suddenly, gentle eyes were overcome with complete shock as the evening news spewed across the plasma screen, a familiar looking mansion depicted in the right corner of the broadcaster's report. He shook Brooke gently to wake her up, increasing the volume of the news report that was to rock both their worlds.

"Broody, what are you…" the brunette beauty mumbled, a soft voice escaping tired lips as she blinked to wake herself up.

"Look, pretty girl… it's Max and Mouth's house!"

Green godliness turned to watch the screen, fingers entwining with her boyfriend's as she sat up into him, his grasp around her shoulders drawing her in as they both waited with baited breaths to hear why the once impressive abode was now adorned with flashing lights and police tape.

"And in tonight's cover story, successful television writer Max Schwahnbitch was found brutally murdered in his Tree Hill mansion this evening, presumably the work of his live-in lover, Marvin "Mouth" McFadden, who it appears has taken his own life after the tragedy occurred. This is the first murder-suicide to rock the small town of Tree Hill, and residents are immensely shocked at the affair, many claiming the two lived a loving, peaceful life behind these manicured, white walls."

As shocked gasps escaped the couple's lips, they held tightly onto one-another, the words flowing from the reporter's mouth in a blur, the rest of the story irrelevant as they stared into each other's eyes.

_First Peyton. _

_Now Mouth and Max._

As the fashion queen's phone lit up at her side, Haley's name flashing across the screen, the brooding boyfriend brushed his hand through her soft tresses, her voice of concern matching that of the voice on the other end of the line. As he watched her lips part perfectly and allow the voice of an angel to expel into the flimsy piece of technology, Lucas vowed to himself that he would never let her go again, that the disappearance of the two forces that had worked so tirelessly to keep them apart had now failed. Through some miracle he had managed to keep his pretty girl, and as she laid into his outstretched arms, bubbling voice spilling into the phone as she chatted animatedly with her darling friend, he knew she would never be forced to leave his embrace again.

After all, people who are meant to be together, always find their way in the end.

_With a little help from their friends._

**__________________________________________________________________**

**~ Many Thanks…~**

Okay… it is done! And naturally I could not end this without sharing a few words of love and thanks to the peeps who have both supported, encouraged and suffered through my crazy writing antics!

Much love to you all!

**Todd – My Twin – My Better Half aka Toe Breaker**

Gemella has finally delivered what she promised you. Thank you for being so patient and waiting for my mind to fucking work properly – you are the only one who understands its twisted ways and I heart you forever for that! Hopefully this story reached your expectations and delivered some sort of cheerfulness to you, and perhaps you can find some peace in the fact that in some stories, the villain actually DIES and doesn't get called EPIC!

Well, in stories written by your crazy Gemella Star at least!

Much love for my sexy, wild Twin!!!

xoxoxoxoxoxox

**********

**Albi – Bert – Dragon aka Green Eyes**

At last the sequel is complete!

May the "Max" hate live on forever, and may you derive happiness through reading of his demise.

I sincerely hope you enjoy this and that it does you proud!

**********

**Kase – Kittles – Beta Lady Extraordinaire**

Thank you for all your help with this fic, even when at times I drowned you in my own self-doubt and fear!

Your advice was both appreciated and amazingly helpful, and I hope I get to read some more of your fantastic work soon.

Screw Mark! He can suck on this one for years to come!

Grazie and much love!

**********

**Meaghs – Apprentice & Mel – Moo Moo **

My sassy angels!

I hope you enjoy this tirade of Markhole hate and know that it came from a good place – my goodness is merely marred by an egotistical, arrogant prick who had it coming!

The epilogue was for you both!

*mwah*

**********

**Zoe "Zizzle", Aly "A-Mate", Shannon "Shanners", Alyssa "Lyssie-Lou" and Katie**

My homies from "home"

You all rock my socks, and I think you're just the coolest bunch of cats across the seas!

Thank you for always supporting me in my unique attempts at writing, and for always being there.

You are all special personified!

**********

And last but certainly not least…

**Leli and Tiff**

My Goddess and My Boo

Oceans, time and silence will not alter how much I love you both.

_My medicine_

Infinity and Beyond!

**********

**Everyone else…**

Please read and review.

It's always nice for an author (or attempted author, such as myself) to read what other people think – especially with such a crazy, lunatic story! So… review away party people!

Much love,

~ * Chrissy * ~


End file.
